Star Wars - X-Wing - Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

  that you can't explain your whole revised plan to General Cracken; he'd never

  go for it. Which is why you could never come up with an order from Cracken for

  me to play along with you. You had to implement a communications blackout to

  keep word of any kind, other than your own reports, from reaching him. It's

  success on Adumar or the end of your career, isn't it, Tomer? Your career

  might not even survive if you're successful. Chief of State Organa Solo, when

  she reviews these events, might just decide that you're a war criminal, not a

  successful diplomat."

  Tomer glared for a long moment. "You could have helped. Things would have

  been better."

  "I might have been able to help... if you'd been straight with me from

  the start. If you hadn't settled on Cartann running everything, through a war

  of conquest, as the only way to get your job done."

  "You use the tools available to youhere's the perator."

  The ruler of Cartann emerged from his doorway, his retinue of guards and

  advisors around him like a set of living shields. Wedge saw Hallis, this time

  wearing subdued sea-green and her hair arrayed as it had been yesterday; she

  maneuvered to be as close as she could to the ruler, which was still outside

  the boundaries suggested by the placement of his outermost guards.

  The perator offered up his charismatic smile for the assembly. This time,

  there were to be no flatscreens broadcasting his words, though once again they

  were amplified so all would hear. "It is with deep sorrow that I must announce

  that certain elements have chosen not to enter into our plans for the future.

  In specific, the seditious forces ruling the nation of Halbegardia and the

  Yedagon Confederacy have decided to issue statements of defiance. Their

  actions are clearly intended to endanger our future relations with other

  worlds and could leave Adumar a weak, disorganized planet, ripe for con -

  quest from outside. So for the sake of the security of all Adumari everywhere,

  I declare Halbegardia and Yedagon to be outside our protection... and the

  targets of efforts of pacification to begin very soon."

  He paused, and applause broke out among his courtiers. This day, Wedge

  saw smaller clusters of foreign dignitaries in the hall. He suspected that the

  ones present yesterday but not today were either under arrest or en route back

  to their native lands.

  The perator raised hands against the applause and it died away. "Will the

  pilot-heroes of the Empire and the New Republic please approach?"

  Wedge put on his business face and led Tycho, Jan-son, and Hobbie

  forward. To his right, the Imperial pilots had formed up in similar military

  precision. The crowd parted before them, and the two groups of pilots came to

  a halt at almost exactly the same moment, three meters from the perator.

  The ruler beamed at them. "You eight pilots have brought considerable

  delight and knowledge to Adumar, but it has all been in circumstances somewhat

  different than those that brought you fame. I would now like to rectify that.

  Would youand it would please us greatly if you wouldlead units of the

  Cartann armed forces in action against our enemies, so that we might grasp the

  full measure of your skill and honor?"

  Turr Phennir was first to speak, his voice nearly as rich and warm as the

  perator's. "It would be my tremendous honor to demonstrate what we have to

  offer the people of Cartann and Adumar."

  The perator smiled upon him, then turned to Wedge. "And our

  representatives of the New Republic?"

  Wedge cleared his throat. This was not going to be good. "We must

  decline."

  The ruler's expression became one of sorrow, regret. "But why? Can it be

  that you care for us less than your Imperial counterparts?"

  Wedge considered his words for a split second. "No, I suspect we care

  more. But we must demonstrate it differently. In this case, with a refusal."

  "I see." The perator nodded, his expression suggesting that he would

  remain reasonable in the face of hurtful treachery. "Please withdraw."

  Wedge and his pilots about-faced and made their retreat.

  They passed Tomer going the other way. "That was your last chance to do

  anything positive," Tomer said. "Now it's up to me to undo the damage you've

  done." The diplomat hurried on to join the perator's retinue.

  "So," Janson said. "What's it like to be an ex-diplomat?"

  Wedge grinned. "I've been better."

  "Think they'll escort us up to Allegiance, or just put us on the business

  end of a planetary defense laser cannon and blast us up there?"

  Tomer had made it to the perator's side. His eyes, his hand gestures, all

  said that he was pleading with the ruler. The perator shook his head again and

  again, then stopped to listen. But when Tomer finally turned away and left the

  ruler's retinue, his expression was downcast.

  "General Antilles!" the perator called. "No, do not step forward. I do

  not wish you to be any closer to me than you already are."

  Wedge stood, waiting, ignoring the rebuke implicit in the ruler's tone.

  "I declare you to be an enemy of the state of Cartann," the perator said.

  "But I am told by Lord Tomer Darpen that it might cost Cartann friendships to

  have you executed as you deserve."

  Hobbie murmured, "This has just gotten a lot worse."

  "So I declare you and your pilots exiles. Remove yourself from Cartann,

  by gauntlet to Giltella Air Base, and never show yourselves before me again."

  Wordlessly, Wedge turned away from the perator and headed toward the

  chamber's exit. He felt blood draining from his head. The weight of his

  failure as a diplomat, anticipated for so long, was finally on him. The moment

  of failure did not feel good. In fact, he couldn't remember feeling worse in

  recent times.

  Yes he could. It was worse when he became certain, for those brief

  moments, that he had lost Iella forever. He'd survived that and overcome it.

  He'd get through this.

  Tomer, walking quickly, reached his side. "You're in trouble."

  "I thought my troubles were over."

  "No. You'll probably be dead before you get to your Blades."

  Wedge stopped. "Blades? We're returning to our X-wings."

  Tomer shook his head. "They're being impounded."

  "Impound"

  "Even as we speak. They'll be gone from your balcony before you can get

  back, hauled off like cargo. You need to be thinking about the gauntlet if

  you're to survive."

  Wedge took a look around. No members of the crowd stood nearer than half

  a dozen meters. Most regarded him with expressions of sympathyor sudden

  revulsion. It matched what he was feeling at the thought of the Adumari

  touching his X-wings, at the realization that he needed answers from this man

  he wanted so desperately to punch. "All right. What does 'gauntlet to the air

  base' mean?"

  "It means you have to get to Giltella Air Base by whatever means you can

  manage. They'll have four spaceworthy Blades ready for you. If you can get up

  to the Allegiance in them, past the Blades that are sure to be gunning for you

  up in the air, you get to live. But" Tomer shrugged, helpless"anyone can


  kill you, Wedge. It's legal. From the door out of the perator's palace to the

  Allegiance, you're all fair game."

  "Which means," Hobbie said, "the longer we wait, the more forces they can

  organize to bring to bear against us."

  Tomer nodded. "Yes. In theory, you could also use the time to communicate

  with your friends and array them against your enemies. But you have no friends

  on-planet to aid you." He looked apologetic. "I'm sorry. The perator was in

  such a towering rage. He would have had you killed outright if I hadn't"

  "We'll discuss your contribution to this whole mess later," Wedge said.

  He felt very cold inside, cold with anger at Tomer and the perator and Adumar

  in general, cold with the realization that the gauntlet he was about to face

  was likely to kill him long before he was able to employ his most useful

  skills.

  He turned back to the crowd and raised his voice. "Who'll offer

  blastswords to four doomed men?"

  For long moments, no one moved.

  Then a dignitary from a nati on that had fallen in line with Cartann came

  forward, a slender man in a gold tunic, and wordlessly offered his sword belt

  and sheathed blastsword to Wedge. A pilot Red Flight had flown against came to

  put another in Tycho's hands. A woman, a minister by her age and dress,

  demanded the swords of her two guards and brought them forward to offer them

  to Hobbie and Janson. Wedge thanked each of them.

  He saw Iella approaching, a surreptitious route that kept her toward the

  back of the crowd; he caught her eye and gave her a little shake of the head.

  She understood and stopped where she was. Nothing she could give him here

  would do him much good... and she could blow her cover, doing herself

  considerable harm. Wedge merely hoped Tomer hadn't caught their little

  exchange.

  At the doorway, they reclaimed their blaster pistols. Moments later, they

  stood arrayed at the exit from the perator's palace, steps down to the

  courtyard and main gates beyond, while an expectant crowd gathered behind

  them... and another crowd, expectant for another reason, gathered out in the

  courtyard. Seeing the distinctive New Republic uniforms waiting within the

  doorway, the courtyard crowd shouted for the pilots to come out.

  "We have to get clear of pursuit and out of sight for a few minutes,"

  Wedge said. "But we're not going to play their game." He pulled out his

  comlink and activated it. "Gate, relay this message up to Allegiance." He

  heard his astromech's answering whistle, and continued, "General Antilles to

  Allegiance. Requesting emergency evacuation from planetary surface."

  There was no answer.

  "Antilles to Allegiance, come in."

  Nothing.

  Wedge turned worried eyes to the other pilots. "All right. So I was

  wrong. We've somehow been countered. We're going to do it their way." He

  checked the charge on his blaster and the others followed suit with theirs.

  "Your orders," he said.

  "Ready," Tycho said.

  "Whatever they expect us to do, we don't do. Four, what do they expect us

  to do?"

  Hobbie said, "Run out toward the gate and get shot."

  "Correct. So we don't." Wedge scanned the courtyard. He saw gathered men

  and women, three dozen or more of them, waiting for them to emerge. He saw

  parked wheeled transportsand one repulsorlift transport against the wall,

  scores of meters to the left of the gate. He nodded in its direction. "That

  one's our target," he said. "Go."

  They moved out and onto the stairs at a trot. As soon as men and women in

  the crowd raised blasters, Wedge and company opened fire and broke left,

  circling around the edge of the waiting crowd.

  Incoming fire looked like srormtrooper new-recruit target practice,

  filling the air, inaccurate, but promising eventual deadly hits through sheer

  volume.

  That wasn't to be. Janson lagged behind and shot precisely, using his

  sights and the native skill with blasters that had been his since childhood.

  When the leading edge of shooters began collapsing, firer after firer

  taking Janson's blaster shots in face and chest and gut, the line wavered.

  Some of the shooters dove for coverthe only cover being provided by the

  bodies of their fellows. Others redoubled their efforts, firing faster and

  with even less accuracy.

  Wedge, halfway across the courtyard, felt heat against the back of his

  neck and tensed himself against pain to followbut there was no pain, just the

  sensation of superheated air from a near miss by a blaster bolt. He fired as

  he ran, his shots nowhere near as accurate as Janson's, but just as

  intimidating; the line of shooters did not surge toward him.

  And then the repulsorlift transport was before him, hanging in the air.

  He hurtled over the rear, skidding forward toward the control mechanism, and

  leaned over the front to shoot the line tethering the craft to the wall. He

  felt the impact of Tycho landing in the bed behind him, more impacts of

  blaster shots hitting the vehicle's side.

  Kneeling behind the control board to get as much cover as possible from

  the low lip at the edges of the vehicle, Wedge powered up its steering

  mechanism. "Call 'em as they come aboard," he said.

  Tycho lay on his stomach at the transport's starboard side, his pistol

  braced against the lip. He fired once, twice, three times, and Wedge heard a

  shriek from the crowd of shooters. There was another thump, and Tycho said,

  "Four's aboard."

  "Where's Three?"

  "Thirty meters back."

  "We'll pick him up." Wedge put the ungainly vehicle in reverse. It glided

  backward with frustrating slowness. Wedge reduced the repulsorlift power on

  the port side, increased it on starboard, so it tilted to port; this made it

  harder to control, but the vehicle's underside offered him and his pilots a

  little additional cover.

  The vehicle shook again, harder than before, and Tycho announced,

  "Three's aboard."

  Wedge glanced at his men. "Anyone hit?"

  They shook their heads, not looking at him, concentrating on pouring

  blaster fire off the starboard side.

  Wedge increased all repulsorlifts to full power. The transport soared

  upward

  To an altitude of four meters. Half the height of the walls of the

  perator's complex. There was no way he could fly over the walls.

  "We're going out by the gate," he announced. "Brace yourselves, pilots."

  He put the transport into forward motion, steering straight toward the crowd

  of shooters and the gate beyond.

  The air was thick with the smell of blaster bolts, and thick with the

  bolts themselves. Only the shooters at the farthest edges of the crowd could

  get a good look at any of the men on the transport, and therefore get a decent

  shot at them; the others could see only the transport's underside.

  Tycho uttered a yelp and stood as the metal under his stomach

  superheated. All over the transport, the flooring began to glow. In two spots,

  it gave way entirely and blaster bolts shot through, toward the sky. Wedge

  shifted his body as the flooring beneath him began to glow.

  B
ut meter by meter they approached the gates and began outrunning the

  shooters in the courtyard. A thin screen of attackers with blasters was lined

  up at the gate, and they poured fire up at the bottom of the transport as

  Wedge crossed overhead; he saw one blaster shot, reduced in strength, emerge

  to slice across Hobbie's hip. He hissed, leaned over the rail, took three

  quick shots in the direction of the screen of attackers.

  Then they were past, floating at a good clip above a street heavy with

  pedestrian and transport traffic, pursuers trailing out behind them and losing

  ground

  The repulsorlift transport's engine coughed and the vehicle immediately

  lost speed. The pursuers began to gain ground on them, even while rushing

  across lanes of heavy traffic.

  Hobbie, stanching his hip wound with a pocket torn from his jacket,

  offered up a bitter smile. "It just doesn't get better, does it?"

  Tycho popped the metal plate over the transport's engine. "Shot," he

  announced. "Both ways. Blaster fire has ruined it."

  "Right," Wedge said. "Janson, what do they expect us to do?"

  "Set down and run on foot, or hop another transport. A wheeled one, since

  there are no floaters in sight." Janson, keeping low, leaned over the rear of

  the transport and fired off several shots at their pursuers. Wedge saw two men

  fall. One of them was immediately run over by a wheeled transport, its driver

  unable to swerve far enough aside in time.

  "So we do something else," Wedge said. He aimed the dying transport

  toward the building opposite the palace gatesa tall residential building, its

  balconies deep, many furnished with elaborate tables or reclining furniture.

  As they neared the building, Wedge could see the flatscreens on its

  exterior at ground level. All showed an identical imagethe rear of Wedge's

  transport, from a distance of forty or fifty meters, on its approach toward

  the building. He offered up a growl. A flatcam was broadcasting their escape

  and it was probably up on walls and personal flatscreens all over Cartann.

  People at the base of the building he approached recognized the scene, turned,

  pointed up at their transportand some unsheathed blaster pistols and began

  firing.

  "Hobbie, suppression fire to starboard. Tycho, to port. Janson, keep it

  up off the stern." Then Wedge saw that their transport, even at maximum